The Endgame
by Yorick's Talking Skull
Summary: John and Sherlock have kept a dangerous secret. As John learns more about Mary's past, there is no other choice but to leave Sherlock. But before he can, on one fateful night, Sherlock reveals an even greater secret of his own. John/Sherlock
1. Absolute Pin

**HAMM:** We're not beginning to... to... mean something?  
**CLOV:** Mean something! You and I, mean something! [laughs] Ah that's a good one!  
-_The Endgame_, Samuel Beckett

Chapter One: Absolute Pin

**Absolute Pin**: _(n., chess move) __When a chess piece is pinned to its king, and cannot move, or the game would come to a close. _

[][][]

I said that if it happened again, I would go to him. It happened again, and by the seventh time, I finally couldn't ignore it.

Bullets ricocheted in my dreams, like they had years ago. Like before I met-well, Sherlock. And I had a feeling these dreams wouldn't stop until I sorted this all out.

The pain was still the same as it had been, every night. As real as it had been in the dust-red sky. It was always the same scene too, in Afghanistan. The same figure that came to me, in the dark. I was shot, like I was, in the shoulder. Each night the same voice would pull me out of my pain, tell me to stay. The same hands would grasp at my face, shouting.

I jolted awake. Panic-stricken, I pulled myself out of the bed-sheets that were slicked against my sweaty skin. I packed a small duffle bag—food, clothing—and I left Mary with nothing but a whispered, 'case,' as I left. She followed me down the hall, and asked if I was okay. I told her that I was. She was adamant on telling me I wasn't.

'You're going to him,' she said. It wasn't a question.

'For a bit, yeah,' I said, putting on my jacket. I picked up my duffle bag.

She nodded, seemingly accepting what I was unwilling to say.

'You know I can't tell you what was on that flashdrive, John.'

'I know.' I was almost at the door.

'It's for your sake.'

'No, it isn't.' I said, my anger now rising. 'It's for you, and you just didn't think I would look at it, so you gave me a blank one.'

'But you did look at it,' she said, her mind, sharp and calculating, was already well ahead of mine.

'Well,' I said, 'I did, didn't I.'

There was a long pause. A pause where we stood before each other, looking at each other, just not knowing what to say, anymore.

'I loved you,' I whispered. 'But I can't anymore.'

Her face was expressionless. 'I know that.'

I crossed the space in-between us, and placed my hands on her shoulders. 'I can't love you, but I can protect you, and your child. That's my vow, as it stands.'

'I know that as well,' she said, arms now on my arms. 'And that's why I chose you, John.'

I wanted to ask her what, exactly, she meant by that, but then she closed the space between us, and kissed my forehead. My chest heaved with what I knew now, what I would never be able to forgive, or live to forget. When we broke, we both stared out the front window of what we once called our flat. The world outside was dark and miserably cold.

'But now have you chosen him?' Mary whispered. It took some time to register what she meant. She looked at my packed bag, and as she did, I caught a glance of my reflection in the window. I looked like a bloody mess.

'Answer me, John,' she said.

I felt the pain of the gunshot in my dreams, but this time in my chest, as I left her, wordlessly.

[][][]

When I was at his doorway, I could hear a low grumble from within his flat. Fiddling. Small movements. I hesitantly pushed at the door. It was open. And I must admit I felt quite sad—sad that all of this would change—my best friend, and his world. But the worst was knowing I'd be the one to do it.

'John?' he said, piping his head towards the doorway. But he knew very well it was me.

When he came into full-bodied view, I could see he was bloody smoking. Again. But that was all I noticed at first. The fumes curled into his chiseled face and he gestured for me to sit while he worked. I didn't go aside. Instead, I joined him. We both stared at London, on a map, stabbed with straight pins. And it was then that I noticed, for the first time, that the floor around us was covered in papers. And the walls were covered in papers. And these papers, as if by a drunk, were all marked with a paranoid, red scrawl. It was then that the tension between us, that all of this distance and time—these two months of losing touch with him since Moriarty's return— that our distance felt real. I acted on impulse, or anger, (I don't know which), and tore the bloody cigarette out of his mouth. He proceeded to grapple with my arm, and he growled with discontent as I shut him out.

'You _idiot_!' he snapped, coming towards me, now with a manic burst of energy. 'That was my last!'

I approached him, but this time, I stuck out my fingers, to his neck. I held his head back. He flinched; his pupils opened wide.

'Christ, Sherlock,' I gasped.

I went to search for tracks on his arms, needle marks, but then he pulled out of my strong hold. And then he stopped. It was only then that I could truly see him. His face, usually clear and chiseled, was sunken in, especially around the eyes. His hair was a mess. Soiled in grease and general disarray. It hadn't been cut in weeks. His body was a skeleton under all his clothes.

'Sherlock?' I murmured, looking up at him. I honestly didn't even know what to say. Not anymore. So I took one of his arms, and brought him down to the sofa.

'Are you at that time?' I asked, sitting beside him.

He knew exactly what I meant.

'Almost,' he said, unable to look at me.

He was shaking in my arms, so I took off my coat, and draped it over him. His body continued to convulse, so I tried to hold him tighter. Finally, he howled and fell into the sofa. The drug's last ecstasy—or whatever empty comfort it gave—it had left his body. It had run its dreadful course.

And I hate to say, but from this point on, my head became muddled. There was, it seems, for the rest of that night and into the morning, no separation of our bodies. But it was because of Sherlock. I remained close to him, and he to me. The high physicality to which Sherlock grasped me, and still did, was not something I was used to. As I held him though, and those images came to my mind. The images from my dreams.

'I wish you wouldn't do this, Sherlock.' And as I said that, he seemed to clasp to me tighter.

'I know,' he said back.

I tried to let him down, and he complied, his head meeting the sofa cushion. I watched his eyelids close. And then his eyes, those analytical orbs underneath his lids, began to calm. A calm which had spread to his shoulders, and down his body. His hands remained clasped at my jacket around him, and around my arm. It was then I was assured the worst had past, and rose from off the couch.

'John…' he croaked, pulling at my arm. 'Where're you going?'

'To get a bloody chair,' I said.

His head rose a bit. His eyes—mere slits—still had a bit of playful warmth. Something, I sensed, only I could detect from him.

'You're going to observe?' he murmured, stuffing his head back into the cushion.

'No,' I said. 'Sit here for a bit, then go up to my room, I think.'

But Holmes remained holding my arm. His grasp frozen, like a dead man's. For someone who was getting off a nasty high, and who was so thin, there was still a great strength about him, I noted. He pulled again, and I found myself settling, and sitting next to him. His blue eyes were wide open now.

'Well don't just sit there,' he snapped. 'Rest your head on the other end.'

'Sherlock,' I told him. I was feeling quite uncomfortable at all this new contact. 'I'd be fine with my room, thanks.'

'Can't.'

'Can't what?'

'Go in there,' he replied.

'Should I ask?'

He let out a slight laugh. And when he did, I felt a warmth surge through my body at the familiarity of that sound.

'I wouldn't if I were you,' he said, creases forming at the corner of his eyes.

'Well, uh, how 'bout your r—'

But then I remembered the taxidermy, and the human skeleton—a medical model not quite obtained legally—propped up, facing the side of the bed he slept on.

'Bloody hell!' I murmured, and finally tossed my shoes off. 'Well, have it your way then.' I let my head rest at the opposite side of his, our legs inevitably intermingling in the sofa's center.

'You take the left side,' I hissed, kicking him.

'My left…or your left…' he was drifting.

Finally, I kicked his legs to a side.

'And I swear, any funny business, any pranks of any sort, and you're a dead—'

But Holmes was already fast asleep, next to me.

[][][]

When I awoke, it was to a loud clash. One that I quickly discovered was not the usual occasion of chaos in the flat—Sherlock Holmes—but instead, a storm raging outside. I immediately got up, searching for Sherlock in the darkness. But he was sitting upright, beside me, staring out the large window of the living room. It appeared to be early morning.

'Couldn't sleep,' he murmured. He shot me a side-glance. 'I've discovered your legs were equally non-apt to movement at night as in day.'

I rubbed my face. 'I had a side,' I yawned, 'how's that a problem?'

'It _is_ a problem when you are sleeping with a heel inserted into your groin.' Sherlock glanced away, 'Or it's merely what I've deduced from an hour spent in that compromising position.'

I threw my reddening face into the pillow. 'Sherlock, I _swear—_'

'Tea?' Sherlock asked, passing me a cup.

'Since when _you_ do make _me_ tea?'

'Since you're here,' he said, taking up his own cup. He looked nervous.

As he propped up his feet on the coffee table in front of us, and pulled out a newspaper, and a flashlight, I felt a warmth unlike anything I have felt over the past two years. Ever since I felt, well, ever since I thought Sherlock had died. And, in my embarrassment of this realization, and being caught by Sherlock's gaze, I looked sharply away from him.

A flash of lightening illuminated the flat, for a sliver of a second.

'Wanna, uh, turn on a light?' I offered, still staring into the darkness, at the floor.

'No use,' Holmes muttered, face illuminated in the flashlight. 'Power's out.'

'Then how'd you make the bloody tea?'

His arm gestured to a lump in the corner, which the flashlight followed. A propane tank, and blowtorch was lying at the end of the light beam.

'Ah. How thoughtful.'

'I thought so.'

'You seemed to have slept well,' Holmes said, after a beat.

'I did, actually, yeah,' I offered back.

'Good to know you weren't having that nightmare again.'

'Excuse me?'

'Oh come on, John. You came to my flat at two in the morning, just dressed to get over here. Eyes shot. Considerably. Eyes sunken in—more than usual—so it must have been not only a few nights without sleep, but nearly a week,' he tossed his newspaper on the table, his eyes now beginning their analytic workings over me. I felt exposed.

'No, John,' He said, eyes raking over me. 'You haven't slept for a week. And I am guessing the dream must have been Afghanistan, which you already dream about with a startling regularity, if you ask me, but—'

'But, I didn't bloody ask you,' I said.

'But that's why you're here. Or is it, John?'

I looked up at him, incredulously. 'Of course, Sherlock. I came all the way across bloody London-at two in the morning, no doubt—to talk Freudian dream psychology with _you_. For Christ's sake!'

His eyes narrowed. I got up, leaving him on the sofa, to go to my chair. I stumbled as I tried to get around in the dark. He followed me.

'Well, I don't know,' Sherlock said, taking his usual seat, to my disdain, across from me. 'I sense a secret on your part, but why don't you enlighten me, John.'

'There's nothing—'

'Or was it my brother?' he said. 'After all, I heard he did visit you after we learned of Moriarty's return. I take it...well, now you must think you know quite a lot about me.'

I was trembling, silent.

'Know...exactly what, Sherlock?'

'Know my past, my history, my connection with Moriarty. I'm sure you found that piece _parti_cularly interesting, tragic…'

'I...he didn't-'

His eyes were opaque, all on me. 'Of course he did. Tell you, that is.'

'I'm sure he's told you about what I've said about you, as well. He does have a flair for killing confidentiality, John.' He knelt before me. 'So what am I now to you, John? After all, you are here and not with your wife.' He stood, circling in above me, like a dark bird of prey. 'Am I a "sociopath"? You loved that name for me in the blog. Or, was the term you used to describe me "psychopath," if I remember correctly?'

'Sherlock, please,' I pleaded. 'I never meant—'

'Of course you don't, John. Nobody means anything until they learn.'

'Just let me stay,' I offered. My heart was pounding. 'Please. Then we can sort this all out, okay?'

He stopped, then. And there was a silence when he stared out, into the darkness of the flat, and as he did, we both listened to the storm raising hell outside.

'Not until you tell me who I am, John Watson.' He turned to face me. 'Then, I will tell you who you are.'

I closed my eyes. My chest heaved. He resumed his own seat.

He reached a hand out, and lifted my chin up, under his bony fingers.

'Look at me.'

I did.

'Now, John Watson,' he said, hands falling. 'Deduce me.'

And there we were: two pieces on a chessboard, ready to begin.


	2. Chapter Two: Alekhine's Gun

Chapter Two: Alekhine's Gun

Mycroft took a long, slow drag on his cigarette. Then, he took one of my bed slippers, picked it up, and used it as a bloody ashtray as he told me: 'He loves you, you know.'

Chapter Text

"After all, is not a real Hell better than a manufactured Heaven?" –E.M. Forster, Maurice

…

**Alekhine's Gun** (n., chess move): When a queen prevents two castle pieces from moving, but only when the castles are in a direct line from one another—Rules of Chess

…

His decision was quite clear. He was ready for a conversation—the conversation— needless to say, one I was not ready to have.

'I can't do that,' I said. 'Not when you're like this.'

And I couldn't. There was that too, as well. Through last night, and into this morning, I realized I wasn't used to this man standing before me. The man who made me tea, reached out for my comfort when coming off a nasty high; a man who bore his addictions bare. This was Sherlock, but not the Sherlock I once knew: the brave, calculated mind. The detective always ready for adventure. This pale, domestic addict resembled nothing of the Sherlock Holmes I once knew. Or was this him? I wondered. Was this the man, Sherlock Holmes, before I met him?

That thought was a poisonous one for me. And as I observed the careful care and attention I've received since my arrival, his uncharacteristic politeness (for his own standards), it made me quite uncomfortable to think about what this all meant. But yet, as I ruminated on about these things, I found I clenched the tea he made me, tighter, in my hands.

'You're a doctor,' Sherlock said, snapping me back into conversation. 'Why do you think I am the way I am? I'd just love to have my mind...expanded.'

The way he glanced at me across the way was a scathing mockery. And then, in that glare there was a voice that said, say it. But what exactly, I couldn't be too sure.

So I replied on defense: 'Did you take them this morning? I mean, to be like this and all?'

'Take "them"?'

'Drugs, Sherlock. Did you take any drugs this morning?'

'Ah! No…' His gaze was clear, unclouded. 'Not since you walked in the door, at least. Why?'

'No reason,' was my reply.

And as I said that, Sherlock settled into his chair. I could tell he knew I believed him, and that also, he was telling the truth. As he closed his eyes, his lips made a thin, purple line. He exhaled. I felt a stab of pain, deep, somewhere in my chest, as if I'd failed him in some way I could not quite place. I wondered if his drug use was manipulative, a reason to keep me there, or the result of me being absent. Or something else, entirely. But he seemed to know this needed addressing, so, for the first time with me, he attempted the conversation.

'I try to stop,' he said, gaining my attention again. 'It's difficult, however, when it's a habit of character.'

'Habits of character can be broken,' I assured him.

His expression was incredulous. 'Can they, really?'

I gritted my teeth. 'Yes.'

'Mmm,' Sherlock's voice hummed. 'Good to know. How are you doing with that?'

'Sherlo—'

'Look, back to the point: I don't know why I'm…whatever I am, John." His words, when they came, were quite matter of fact, and guarded. 'But don't you think, for one moment, that I'm not trying.'

'You don't need to change, Sherlock.' And I meant this as I said it, 'But...'

'But what?'

'I just want to see you get better, is all,' I went for this. Safer. I sighed, relieved, then added, 'I want to see you, you know, back to being, the...the man I met, I suppose.'

'The man you met?'

Sherlock didn't seem to follow. Instead, he searched my face for answers. Answers I was unwilling to give. And as he did, the door to the flat burst open. A gust of cold from the hall accompanied the motion, and snaked into the living room. The figure, battered with the rain from the outside storm, was Billy. Sherlock's dealer from the crack house. He was standing there, windswept and drenched, holding groceries. His eyes were intently fixed on Sherlock. And then, on me.

'I got you some bloody food, ya baby,' Billy muttered, still watching me as he shuffled into the flat.

I noticed Sherlock was immobile. My heart began to race, my mind was boggled down. Billy closed the door to the flat, then kicked off his shoes on the mat.

'Nah, I know you said notta to be back for a good bloody day or whatever, but don't ya think you couldda told me you planned on havin' company?' He passed Sherlock's chair, and ruffled a hand through his hair. Billy looked used to the motion. Sherlock, however immobile, appeared used to the gesture, as well.

'Politeness, Sherlock,' he said, peering down at him, mouth in a slight smile. 'It's a bloody thing.'

Sherlock's eyes remained fixed ahead, unblinking. Billy made his way to the kitchen.

'I thought with the electric bein' out an' everything that ya'd probably not be in a mood to even make anythin'. So…bein' the good creature that I am, I brought you some stuff.' He loaded these groceries into what appeared to be a bare refrigerator. 'You should have seen the bloody Tesco, Sherlock. Monkeys, I tell ya. The whole bloody race's been reduced to fuckin' primates, alright.'

As I watched Billy load the fridge, I realized my heart was pounding. I noticed with the way he stacked everything, and yet again, it told me this was something Billy was quite used to. He knew the way the shelves were slanted from Sherlock's experiments. And because of that, he knew the way you had to stack items so they wouldn't come crashing down at your feet.

'You're…living with him?'

'Need to pay the rent, somehow,' Sherlock muttered, expression unchanging.

'Na, I heard that!' Billy bellowed from the kitchen. 'I'd have ya bloody well know I'm helping Sherlock Holmes with an experiment. And quite an unfortunate one at that.'

My eyebrows rose. 'An "experiment"? That's what this is?'

'Now, John, I—'

I was furious. 'You call it an "experiment"? Living with your…' I got up, and got close to his face, enough to whisper while pointing to the kitchen. "…your bloody drug dealer! For Christ's sake!'

'Ay! I heard that too, John Watson!'

Billy, who was finished in the kitchen, stood staring at me, with those hollow, addiction-laden eyes. 'If ya wanna bloody-well insult me, I'd hava chat with me on whose tryin' to keep 'um off the hard stuff, and get'im back down these past here two months. I don' see you doin' that. Naww. I don't. Do I?'

'Now, you shut up!' I felt disembodied. Rage.

'You bloody well don't tell me whatta do with a person you haven't even spoken to in bloody months, you son of a—'

My control cracked. I went for him. Sherlock, staggering at full speed, quickly got between us.

'Let. Go.' Sherlock growled, and I felt a force of staggering strength claw at my shoulders. And then, through my anger, I realized Sherlock was addressing me. By now, his hands were on my neck, tightening their grip. Startled at his strength, I released my lock around Billy's head. He muffled a whimper as I released his head, and Sherlock ushered him into the kitchen, but not before giving me a look of absolute, solid loathing. It was then I felt anger swell within me, and hatred. A hate I could not quite place. Sherlock conferred with Billy. After all, he knew, for instance, Sherlock and I hadn't spoke for months. But there was something else: I felt that whatever deal was going on here, Sherlock was being taken advantage of, and I didn't even think he was aware of it.

I was afraid then, as I came to that realization, that I would hurt someone. So instead, my fist met the wall. And those walls, they felt like they were caving in.

'That's it,' I said. 'I'm leaving.'

'No,' Sherlock turned back, and took my shoulders. Forcefully, he ushered me back to my chair. 'I'm going to talk with him, and then…then, we'll talk.'

'I've seen all I need to see,' I said.

'This isn't…what it looks like,' he replied. His eyes were intense, focused. His voice, calm and low. 'Please stay' he said quietly. 'We'll talk, alright John? There's a plan to all this you're seeing. I can promise you that much.'

I scowled. 'If you can bloody-well come up with an explanation for this, then you are a bloody gen—'

'I will explain,' he said quickly, then his hand went for my wrist, and encircled it. He didn't let go. My body went mute. 'Please wait for me.'

I found myself, indescribably, taking my chair again. I watched as Sherlock went into the kitchen, and closed the door. But, he missed fully closing it by a sliver. And I, of course, peered through it from where I sat. Their conversation rose through the walls in alternating swells, and low waves, depending on what they were conferring about. And I listened to this for quite some time.

By now, the conversation came in muted parts, whispers. I heard Moriarty's name come up, quite frequently. It was then, I relaxed—or hoped—that there was some logical reason for Billy being here, after all. Maybe Billy was helping Sherlock devise a plan to take down Moriarty. After all, he was quite like Sherlock in his mind, and abilities. Both abnormally gifted. And as I am sure, the detective took careful note of that.

As I listened further, the conversation with Billy and Sherlock rose to something I could hear:

'Remember what I said ya'd have to do if I're to help you out, Sherlock?' Billy asked. I watched as Sherlock nodded.

'Now, I know you're not back on it, but you've been, an' what did I bloody tell ya 'bout that?'

There was a pause.

'You were so close, you were. Bein' clean an' all. Right?'

Sherlock muttered something so low it was inaudible.

'I jus' want you to be alright, is all,' Billy told him.

'No,' Sherlock said, ruefully. 'That's not why you are doing what you're doing for me.'

'No,' Billy replied. 'It isn't.'

And before Sherlock could continue, I watched as Billy grabbed his face, roughly, in his hands, and he kissed him, forcefully. Sherlock allowed it, and fell against the counter. Billy kept at it. I felt my fists clench, and then...

Our eyes finally met through the crack in the door. And when they did, Sherlock broke away.

'What's the matter, Sherlock?' Billy asked him, hands still on Sherlock's waist.

But the man said nothing to him. Instead, he remained with his eyes locked on me. The detective headed for the kitchen door, but by the time he reached it, I was running out of the flat. I felt an anger, a rage in my confusion. It propelled me forward, and kept me going when I wanted to stop. As I ran, I felt a sickness deep down, knowing that whatever it was I had witnessed, all of this was done, however twistedly, with one person in mind: me. And this was something I couldn't bear to watch unfold.

[][][]

It was as I rounded the corner of Baker Street that I realized I didn't know where the hell I was going. From the rising clamor of footsteps behind me, I realized Sherlock was following close behind. He chased me on the street, and then followed when I moved to the sidewalk. My head was raised as I ran, gasping for air, and I could see that the street was completely dark, expect for the light of the early morning, and the safety lights, which hummed in the electric outage.

'John!' he bellowed, almost caught up with me. 'John, wait!'

I kept running against the whip of the rain.

'John, please.' He was winded, but finally, he had caught up with me. And when he did, he pulled hard at my shoulder, and spun me around to face him. We found ourselves staring breathlessly at one another. I could tell Sherlock wanted to speak first, but I raised a hand to his face.

I looked up, into his eyes and said: 'I don't know who you are. Not anymore.'

And with those words, his face fell, but only momentarily. He seemed to find what he wanted to say.

'I wanted…' he began. 'Or rather, over these past two years of knowing y—Well, I realized I wanted companionship, you see.'

He gazed into my frozen features.

'…Or, at least I needed a way, a person to aid me with this, with Moriarty's re—'

'"Companionship"?' I repeated his word. It was a simple enough word after all, and could mean a variety of things, but I found myself choking on the word.

'Companionship—with your drug dealer?'

'Well,' Sherlock said, raising his shoulders. 'I couldn't have you.'

And immediately after he said it, he seemed to realize the implications behind those words. And as I watched the fear—that pain and terror in his face at this admission—I realized that what I'd seen of Billy and Sherlock's interaction, it ran much deeper than Sherlock's need for intellectual companionship, another brain to solve cases with, or an extra body to take down Moriarty. For some implausible reason, Sherlock had changed. Or at least, the man I knew had.

'It's obvious, isn't it, John?' The rain was coming down hard now. 'Who'd I'd prefer to have, who I would want to live with me in that flat, solving cases, and—'

'No,' I said. I wanted this conversation to end. I wanted to stop him from saying what I knew he would say. I wanted to tell him something I had harbored, and I knew would expose the truth behind his claims. Sherlock Holmes was a liar.

'You don't want me,' I assured him. 'or you never would have left those years ago.'

'What?' he sputtered. 'What's that got to do with—'

'It has everything to do with this, Sherlock,' I said. As my eyes met his face, I feared, that if he continued, so would my fist.

Sherlock's own eyes opened, wide.

'Mycroft had a little chat with you, did he?' Sherlock took a step forward, easing me into an alleyway. 'He must've told you Moriarty is our brother. So you must know now, John. Why I did what I did for you those two years.'

I looked up at him, the memory of the scene flooding back to me. Mycroft did come to my flat, the morning after Moriarty's return. He came and I was still distraught, my mind somehow always wandering right back to that scene outside the plane. Sherlock was about to tell me something, something he knew I was not ready to hear. So instead, he cracked a joke. And I found myself relieved, and somehow, disappointed. But Mycroft, of course, observed that interaction. And also, that I did not speak with his brother when he returned. We merely watched each other, hopelessly distant on that tarmac, and he was loaded into a black SUV with Mycroft.

So that morning, the morning after all this, I awoke in my flat to cigarette smoke invading my nostrils, and Mary not beside me. The smoke, as I watched it, continued to snake, in plumes, and into my vision of the ceiling. When I turned to my side, I caught the sight of large, leather dress shoes propped up against the corner of my bed. Since I was half-naked, and still under the covers, it is unfortunate to say Mycroft had my captive attention. He knew this, and he played on this misfortune of mine very quickly.

Mycroft took a long, slow drag on his cigarette. Then he took one of my bed slippers, picked it up, and used it as a bloody ashtray as he told me: 'He loves you, you know.'

He said it, those words, right off. He was sitting on a leather chair, slumped, the portrait of his usual melancholy. Smoke continued to curl up his face as he stared at me, waiting for some sort of reaction.

'E-excuse me?' I sputtered.

And with that reply, I received a devastating blow to my kneecap as one of his heeled dress shoes came reigning down with a loud, resigning crack. I swore loudly at him, and tried to bolt from under the covers, my state be damned. But he stood, and held the pointed tip of his umbrella point to a jugular vein in my neck, saying:

'John Watson, he loves you, and if you break him John, I will break you so much harder than he would ever dare to do.'

He then lowered his umbrella, and twisted it into my recently battered knee. 'Because he would never do that. Not to you John. He's not one of the two sociopaths of the family, you see.'

I didn't respond to Mycroft, besides giving a shout of pain, so he simply went on, taking my otherwise verbal silence as compliance. He went on to tell a story in a low voice, explaining the time his brother was almost killed, once, long ago, by a younger Moriarty. But now, as the story had finished, I learned Moriarty failed, and moved to Ireland, age thirteen. But that was after he failed to kill his brother. His brother, Sherlock Holmes…

'Sherlock,' I said, falling back into the present, back from that memory which pulled me, and bothered my waking moments since. 'We don't have to talk about this. At least, not now.'

Sherlock ignored me.

'He also told you, I'm sure, that he discovered Mary works for him.'

I heaved a sigh, trying to shut out those words. Because they made me think of others. Those words I've tried to get out of my head for the past two months. Those terrible, awful stories Mycroft left in my brain. Stories of Sherlock Holmes, a brilliant, but abused kid. Those stories, which I'm sure brought about the nightmares about Afghanistan. The dream I usually had, the one where I was shot, but now Sherlock was there, hovering over me.

'He loves you, you know.'

And I could see that now, even though I didn't know to what extent it bore its meaning. Sherlock Holmes stood before me, in this alleyway, defeated in every sense of the word, but here he was, still trying. And he didn't do that for too much of anything he didn't…oh Christ.

'Look, Sherlock.' I offered, ' Mary tried to get away from all that, she's—'

'Mothering another man's child. Someone she met and fell in love with from Moriarty's force. He was at the wedding, if I recall correctly.'

'Sherlock—'

'And now, John. Since you might as well know, and it appears you are leaving me now,' He pulled up his shirt sleeve, revealing tracks where the drugs had entered his arms. I closed my eyes. 'It's all right here. I am no sociopath, John,' And as he continued, he was almost inaudible 'I hate to tell you that, I really do. I am probably the most ordinary, basic human being on the planet. At least, when it comes to why I do the things I do.' He neared closer. 'I need to tell you that after all we've been through, all we've seen, I've never expected… to take to you so strongly…or anyone for that matter. And I…I want you to know that—although I've struggled to say this many times before—I need to probably tell you now, or I fear I won't ever get better,' He gestured to his arm, 'Or have the chance again, so—'

'Sherlock, don't.'

But he kept going, kept inexplicably trying. 'And I hate to tell you that I used that word, "sociopath," to protect no one but you, John. Because really,' I looked up at him, and he faltered. 'If I weren't a sociopath, you—you know what I'd be.'

'Sherlock, you don't have to—'

'John, I'm gay.'

I faltered. 'That's fine.'

'It isn't,' He said. 'Not when I've never found myself…in this situation before, of being—of wanting. It doesn't make any logical...'

But his voice died off.

He walked then, to meet me. To the place in the alleyway where I had tried to create distance between us. But now my back was against the brick of the drive. He watched me, gauging my reaction as he neared closer to me. He placed a hand to the wall, behind my head. His gaze on me was unflinching.

'I let this happen to you,' he whispered. 'I let this happen to you and if something were to happen, now. If someone were to hurt you…'

'He loves you, you know.'

'I've been hurt, already, Sherlock. More than you can understand,' I said, bitterness washing over me. And now, even more, at his admission.

And I wanted to say it was more than that. It was from what I believed was his suicide two years ago, all of this pain and lies with Mary, but he moved from the wall. Sherlock placed his head in his hands, and it was the first time I'd ever seen him do that. His head was bowed down, towards the ground, his form utterly defeated. I tried to tell him it was alright, but he heard none of it.

'Go!' he finally bellowed, arms extended down the alleyway. 'I was terribly wrong to believe I could—'

'Could? What can you do about it, exactly?' I asked him, angry he wouldn't let me get one bloody word in. After all, was this—this great mess we got ourselves into—all about him? What he felt? What he wanted? He treated my life as if it were some bloody puzzle, something so simple that he could fix, and place back together. But, it wasn't. No one's life was.

'Go!' He shouted. 'Can't you see? There is nothing I can be for you, anymore. I am no hero you write about. I am no psychopath, either. I am an average human being, who lo—'

I tried to approach him, to calm him down and set him straight, but he raised a pointed finger.

'You leave!'

'He loves you, and if you break him John, I will break you so much harder than he would ever dare to do. He would never do that. Not to you John.'

'Sherlock, you—'

His temper, I noticed, was at its height. His voice, when it came, it came slowly, over an undercurrent of rage.

'John Watson...if you want to do one last thing for me, I would tell you to leave me.' His voice was low. His eyes, averted. 'Now!'

And so, I did. I left him oscillating on the pavement. And for the first time, in a very long time, I felt tears, hot and heavy, swelling in my eyes. Blocks away, blocks I didn't realized I had run, the sun rose with the morning. I collapsed on the ground, heaving with how far I'd gone. Then, I let out a shout. I yelled into the street before me, the empty, bloody, shitty street. In the early morning sky around me, that was red, no reply came. And for a moment, I was transported back to Afghanistan. There too, I was alone against a blood-red sky. Holmes was not running after me anymore. No one was. I let my fists strike the pavement. I concentrated on the pain surging through my fists.

And I noticed, as I opened my eyes some time later, that the power from the storm had returned. The flats were lit up. My eyes burned in their light. I looked behind me.

Again. No one there.

I was sure then, that I'd lost, finally, and for the last time, the person who mattered most. And that was the end of it. I was too late. For so many things. And that, that was what hurt most of all.

[][][]

When I got into my flat, Mary was waiting up for me.

'How'd it go?' Then she caught sight of me and went. 'Are you…are you crying?'

I slammed the door shut to my room, only to hear a rap at the door, minutes later. Then there was silence for a awhile—and wondering if Mary was alright—I finally dragged myself up, wiped the mess off my face and opened it.

Mary and Moriarty were standing in the low light of the hallway, waiting for me.

I almost laughed. 'You've got to be fucking kidding me right now.'

'Hmm,' Moriarty replied, his head tilting slightly. 'That's exactly what I was thinking when I was watching you, and your boyfriend in that alleyway, moments ago' He raised a gun to my head. 'Got my popcorn got all soggy, John.' Then after a cruel smile. 'All this damned rain, Watson. I got some East Wind in my popcorn. Isn't that what Sherlock and Mycroft call it? The Eas—'

'Where's Sherlock?" I said.

I was buying time, slipping my hand onto the card table. One that was out of their view, to my right, behind the doorframe. I was reaching for my gun.

I opened the drawer.

'I'm afraid I'm here to tell you, Dr. Watson, that it's about time you're put down. You have a look of DEATH about you tonight, after all…'

Moriarty knew he could go for these theatrics. He had all the time in the bloody world. Now that I was cornered into a dead end room.

'I will put you down,' he sneered. 'Just like Sherlock's little dog. Or, should I say, WILLIAM'S little beast.'

I lifted the pistol out of the drawer.

'So battered, the little BRUTE.' Moriarty's smile cracked. 'But that death business came after I was done with him, after I tortured it. Redbeard….Redbard? His name was something like that. Don't ask me. Loooong time ago, buy anyhow, what is relevant is that he had to be put down, the little beast. Only thing William ever loved, apparently— a DOG. Funny? Isn't it? Totally NOT what you'd expect.'

As I continued to fiddle with the gun, I tuned Moriarty out, and tried to silently get the safety off. I realized, then, that Mary was watching me. I knew she had a gun resting behind her back, too. And I played to god she'd aim it at him, and not at me. I was hoping whatever we were, even if over, I would mean something to her. And it was then I realized, if she turned against me, I would not survive. They both were expert marksmen. And Moriarty, against his nature, appeared to be going in for the kill. If they both against me, I would never be able to get back to Sherlock, wherever he was right now.

I held my gun now, in my hands, and slid it behind my back. Then, time for the safety:

'But now, what do we have here?' Moriarty's eyes narrowed, and he met me, in the doorway of my room. The tips of our feet met, we were face to face. A hand of his fell down my chest. I nearly dropped my gun, still hidden behind me. 'It appears Sherlock loves himself a new little pet of his own…'

Then he closed the space, and bit down on my ear, hard. I closed my eyes, wincing, taken aback at the white-hot pain.

Mary's look was expressionless.

'And now, I'm going to put you down, too,' he whispered, lips meeting my ear. 'And it will burn the heart right out of him. But this time, it is throughyou, John Watson. The new little…Holmes pet.'

He took a step back, giving me a glance-over.

'Moran, darling,' he said, stepping out of the way. 'If you'll do the honors. You know I don't like to get my hands dirty.'

Moran, that was her real name.

She raised her pistol.

'Mary,' I whispered, a plea. I needed more time. 'Mary Watson.'

'No John,' she said, pistol unflinching. 'I am not your Mary Watson. I belong to no one, and most of all, not to you.' After a moment's hesitation, she neared my face. 'You need to understand John, that I am not a person to be had, or to be owned, or—most of all— loved. I am not motivated by love, like you are, John. I'm more complex than that. I am motivated by what I want, and what I do. And what I do John, is simple. I kill people.'

She clicked off her safety.

'But that didn't seem to bother you, when that person wasn't you—now, did it?'

I had the gun in my hand. I didn't want to shoot her. Something, still, however uneasy, kept my hand behind my back.

'Mary, please, don't do this. You don't…know what you're doing.'

'I think I do,' she said. 'After what happened with you and him, it's for the best. I mean, your fear of what others thought of the two of you—and you know what I'm talking about John—was enough to make even me pity you.'

Her gun was now in direct firing line of my heart.

'He's being killed right now, John,' she said. 'And you cannot live with that. It's over.'

I stared down at her swollen abdomen.

'You're lying to me,' I said. 'Sherlock escaped—probably knew you lot planned this.'

Moriarty laughed. 'I wouldn't be too sure about that, John Watson. I believe he's about to die, if not already dead. Funny how that works, isn't it? Here…then gone. Right….then wrong. Oh, how changeable things are!'

Moriarty shared a glance with Mary, then said, 'Time to go, John Watson.'

'John?' It was Moran addressing me now, past the barrel of her gun, but then it appeared she has one last thing to say to me. And as her features twisted in discernment, I watched as I caught a glimpse of Mary. Someone so familiar to me. And for a brief moment, she was the woman I fell in love with. The woman who knew my worries, my fears, and most of all, my joy. The woman who once made me laugh, and more often than not, to remember to always think. I watched as this woman, the woman who resembled my Mary, narrowed her eyes in concern.

'I wish you would have seen things the way they were, and not how you wanted them to be.' Her voice was even, thin. 'At least, when I first saw you—the night I was a sniper at the pool—I knew that Sherlock believed you to be clever enough to see what was going on, to know.'

'Know what?' I asked, my voice was barely a whisper.

'Know that you were a man in love with Sherlock Holmes. A man who accepted that however inexplicable that was, and would not get entangled withme –someone who does not, and will not love.' She let out a breath. 'That…that is the man we thought you were, John Watson.'

Moriarty raised an eyebrow, and began to laugh. 'Well then, that was awkward.'

'I do believe in justice, John.' Mary continued, ignoring him, and allowed the barrel of the gun to be in direct alignment with my chest.

And after she did so, I felt bodiless as my arm lifted, and I raised my loaded gun to her head. She smiled.

'What are you doing, John? He's long gone.'

'No,' I whispered, heart pounding.

'If so,' Mary said. 'He'll just have to take your lead.'

'I'm going back to him,' I said.

After that, a single shot was fired.

A scream reverberated, in echoes, within my skull.


End file.
